


Cold Starshine

by thishazeleyeddemon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Spoilers for Wintersmith, Stream of Consciousness, The Chalk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishazeleyeddemon/pseuds/thishazeleyeddemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tiffany watches the starlight on the snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Starshine

**Author's Note:**

> Title from S.J. Tucker's song "Cold Sunshine."

Tiffany Aching was the witch of the Chalk country, that her grandmother had called _the wold._

 _Up on the wold the wind blows cold,_ Tiffany thought as she sat alone on the calkin that had been dragged from the turf and the snow only a week ago. It had taken five men to bring this calkin up, and, not seeing anything else they could do with it, they gave it to their witch.

It sat up on the downs now, outside of the town but not so far away that she couldn't see the town when she sat on it.

She had no time to herself, really, not ever, and that is a terrible thing for a girl who was almost fifteen. 

(She'd had her fourteenth birthday party last week. It was a childish thing to want, a birthday party,  but childish does not mean bad, or unnecessary.)

What Tiffany did was make time, fashion silence from her own thoughts, and that was how she avoided madness, or cackling. In a world of noise and movement and confusion she was a haven in warm, sweet silence, and Tiffany Aching's silence had a place for all. She'd take you in and listen to your problems, and sometimes it seemed like just by listening, Tiffany could make your problems disappear, vanishing like mist in the dawn. 

Of course she couldn't. What happened was that you knew the solution to your issue, deep in your mind, and telling someone let you realize that you knew it. It wasn't a unique talent, but it was magic, and it doesn't stop being magic just because you know how it's done. 

Tiffany reached up and undid the ponytail she'd tied her hair in for the working day, and watched the cold starshine sparkle on the winter snow.

She allowed herself to feel proud that, one year later, the world was not endless snow and ice, with nothing moving because nothing was left to move. She'd  _won,_ won against the Wintersmith, for Wentworth and the Nac Mac Feegle and for the Chalk itself,  her damp country, the land made of bones.

Tiffany smiled as she listened to her people,  the sweet silly people of her steading, returning to bed. Once most were asleep,  she'd return to the Aching farm and retire herself. 

Since she was Tiffany,  she went through the chores of the day in her mind. Had there been anything missed? No, there was not. It was an odd sensation, having nothing to do.

She laid back and watched the stars wheel above her. The sky was clear, and she loved nights like this, because nothing was more beautiful than a winter night with no clouds.

And, not for the first time, she wished Granny Aching was there with her. 

Granny Aching would have enjoyed a night like this, with the cold brisk air that cleared your head marvelously,  and the stars shining like gemstones, or polished pebbles at the bottom of a riverbed. Sheep bleated, contented, and she felt pleased that there were two more than there otherwise might have been.

Two wolves had attacked another family's sheep ( _Not Aching sheep. Never Aching sheep. The Feegles had promised.)_ and Tiffany had been called to help drive the wolves away. They had been skinny, starving things. Tiffany had felt sorry for them, but she couldn't let wolves take the sheep. 

Even skinny bags of bones masquerading as wolves had a ferocious bite, and Tiffany shook to think of what would have happened if the Feegles hadn't been there. She may have been  a witch, but wolves don't discriminate between those who are witches and those who aren't, and she was still a thin fourteen year old, even for all her power. Wintersmiths were easy compared to a lean, angry wolf determined to do anything to eat and determined to eat anything. 

Tiffany pulled herself up and twisted around, peering into the night. In the daytime, you could just see the remnants of Granny Aching's cottage, but not after dusk, evidently. 

It had been clear nights like this for a month after Granny Aching died. Tiffany knew it was silly, and stupid, but she still liked to think of it as Granny Aching's last gift, herding the clouds away in the middle of flood season.

She stood, stretched, and surveyed her lands. The town was quiet now, with light streaming from only a few houses. One of the places still lit was the Aching farm. 

This is Tiffany Aching, putting on her hat and stretching once more. On the calkin she looked like a queen, tall and proud, which was odd, because everyone had said that the calkin looked a little like a throne.

Tiffany slid down off the calkin and strode off toward home, boots crunching on the snow, as cold starshine lights the world silver, and stars wheeled overhead. 

The Chalk. The wold. Her land, her home. The land was in her bones and her bones were in the land. Nothing could take the Chalk and its people away from their witch Tiffany Aching, the Hag o' the Hills.

This was her place. 


End file.
